Slow It Down
by SweetSamaritan
Summary: Destiel. Castiel has fallen, lost his wings and is living the human life. He's not the same - both boys realise that, but Dean tries to fix it the only way he knows how.


_I feel this filth in my bones,_

_Wash off my hands til' it's gone._

_The walls they're closing in,_

_Like velvet curtains. _

_The Lumineers – Slow it Down. _

(.:.)

It has been seven months since Castiel had lost his wings.

He doesn't speak about it – none of them do. They've had a steady stream of 'brothers' and 'sisters' passing through, one after the other, some taking residence for a few weeks though they never stay, most arriving seeking solace and safety, finding it and leaving with it – 'travelling on to pastures new' as Sam tended to put it so often. If Dean had a dollar for every time Sam had said that… well he'd have a lot of spare dollars.

They both knew what it was like to have a piece missing – a hole blown through your chest that you couldn't fill. Sam had lost his mind, Dean had… well he'd lost a lot. So who better to understand the trials and tribulations of a broken angel than two broken men? Because Castiel wasn't an angel anymore, he was mortal – a broken man. Like them.

Dean knew what it was like to feel hungry, Sam knew better than anyone how an insatiable thirst drove you wild. Dean knew the feel of lust as it bubbled and sizzled in your gut, Sam recalled well the feeling of losing a part of you so large you forgot who you are or, more importantly, who you ever were. So the boys tried to appease the constant void, fed him, clothed him, slathered him in company and in warmth and in family. But it hadn't changed a thing – reminded him what he had lost.

Three months after the fall Dean had found the coat folded neatly on top of the laundry pile, suit not far away on the side. He hadn't questioned it, had added it to the other clothes with an extra helping of fabric softener for good luck, had spent the afternoon ironing and pressing each garment himself, taking the time to finger the tears and rips in the faded beige fabric, each graze a memory, each cut a scar of times past. He'd hung it up in the cupboard by his father's jacket, reminded himself to inform Castiel of his uniform's whereabouts – just in case the kid had a change of heart.

But Castiel had remained stoic in his change, had transitioned wordlessly into the Winchester life if plaid and jean, leather and sweats. He had his own monogrammed bath robe, his own pair of slippers he wore whenever the weather got cold. Dean had spent evenings teaching him how to treat the leather of his jacket, Castiel finding his weekends devoured by Sam as they shopped for more flannel and plaid than the new addition could shake a stick it, all pieces to fill the emptiness of his wardrobe. But the coat had remained, covered in a dust jacket and hung in the dark – always waiting. Dean told himself that Cas'd come around… it was just a matter of time.

Five and a half months in Castiel had fallen slack jawed and dopy eyed into Dean's side on the sofa, breath ghosting over his cheek warm and damp, scents of Jack Daniels and cigar smoke heavy in the air. Dean had been torn between pulling away and tugging him closer. He'd turned his eyes on him, empty, bottomless, a cold clarity Dean couldn't have possibly even begun to fathom, and kissed him hard, bluntly, with so much need and desperation the hunter had felt the life sucked from his body, the warmth from his blood. But in the end – he hadn't seemed to mind. It was what Castiel wanted – what he needed, and what Castiel tended to need Castiel tended to get.

Another drunken night six months after the fall, another blunt kiss – a blind confession. The coat had felt heavy, had felt too light for him without the weight of flight on his back, without the delicious burden of anything settled between his shoulders. He'd shed it like a skin he'd said – like a snake, outgrown it. He missed flight, missed the weightlessness, had tried to _feel _again, tried to discover the same sense of out-of-body-experience at the bottom of a whisky bottle and failed more times than he cared to remember – not that he could. And Dean had held his body in his arms, so much smaller without the copious layers of shirt and coat, and rested a chin in the amongst the tendrils of his hair, sucked in his scent, whispered words of comfort to him as he'd slipped into unconsciousness in his lap.

It had been the first time they'd ever slept together- Dean not wanting to leave him alone, Castiel needing an anchor to hold him down, a face to wake up to.

They didn't speak of it, content to just… _live. _Sam had made no move to bring it up, though Dean was well aware that if the circumstances had been far different he'd have been dug in the ribs so many times by his little brother he'd have very few left unbroken. But, as things lay, he and Castiel drifted through their days together, trading meek and incredibly chaste touches, each form of contact cherished by both though such sentiment went unspoken, as was their way. They spent their nights in each other's beds, trading one for the other, Dean catching a curious expression on his brother's face one morning, finding himself clad with the symbols CL on his lapel and not the DW he was accustomed to, face having flushed all shades of scarlet before he'd stutteringly excused himself from the room to change, Sam's laughter urging him on as he'd sped down the corridor towards his room. He'd slipped through the crack in the door, eyes becoming accustomed to the dark, gaze falling across long splayed expanses of skin, a body burnt and born from sun and from sky, lashes falling dark against petal-blushed cheeks from where the warmth continued to touch. With that sight in mind Dean had found himself back in the kitchen, middle finger held up to his choking brother as he'd poured himself a cup of coffee, content with the fact that he, Dean Winchester, no longer cared.

It had been seven months since Castiel had lost his wings.

Dean remained by the door, a shadow, hands twisted inside his own, palms slick and clammy with sweat as he worried his lip with sharp teeth – waiting. He heard those familiar footsteps, the slap of bare feet against tile and laminate, the soft scuff of heels slightly dragged. He emerged in time to wrap his arms around that well-mapped waist, fingers tracing bone through soft cotton, warm mouth falling lightly against skin, nose tucked just under Castiel's ear, hair caressing the freckles that littered the hunter's nose and cheeks. He heard Castiel hum his appreciation, the gentle feel of hands in his hair, blunt nails scratching in amused little circles against his scalp as Dean continued to pepper his neck in kisses, Castiel seeming more than a little content to stand there and take it. Dean's eyes were heavy and lidded, something that didn't go unnoticed, though the source of the darkness that clouded the green of his irises did not lie with lust but with worry, a fear that made his blood run cold. Castiel noted the difference (having seen the former eventuality far more than once), but did not act upon it, allowed the hunter to have his way – whichever way that would lead. Dean backed his angel against their door, thumb settling in that familiar little hollow beneath Cas's cheekbone, reacquainted himself with the taste of his angel's mouth as he made to distract, made to devour the last of Castiel's modest inhibitions. He felt the body beneath him relax, hands moving from face and hair to shoulders and to waist, skimming hemlines, tugging and plucking at fabric.

It didn't take long for Dean to find his hands falling against heated flesh, fingertips softly scanning juts of bone and muscle instead of the sharp metal of zippers or the graze of rough denim. It was only then that Dean dared lay a hand against the door handle, cold metal biting into the skin of his palm as Cas did the same to the base of his throat, a small strangled noise falling from his lips as they tumbled backwards through the door, something Dean quickly (and most expertly) kicked shut after them.

He anchored Castiel to his body, rooted his hands in his angel's hair as he reclaimed those lips, thumbs brushing lines in stubble, tongue searching, eyes fluttered closed against the overpowering warmth of his companion's body flush against his. They continued their stumbled dance across the room, breaths heavy, Castiel's hands bruising and strong where they'd settled at Dean's hips, thumbing the bone, Dean gasping for air like a fish out of water. Right foot fell alongside left, Castiel's eyes falling shut as the backs of his legs hit mattress, trusting, consistent. Dean mapped their decent, closed his eyes and settled heavy against his lover's body, felt the sudden rise of a gasp captured in the depths of a chest, the sudden beat of a panicked heart, squeezed his eyes ever further shut as hands scrabbled against his bare shoulders, nails biting.

"Dea-"

He could feel it – feel them from where he lay draped over his angel's body. And Castiel had trusted him enough to fall back, exactly how he'd hoped and planned, bare back bathed in massive expanses of feathery down, sack after sack of it dumped and spread with care by his own hand against the comforter he'd had shipped over, both men engulfed by white quill-less feathers. Dean brought his hands up to trace calming circles into the angel's prickled flesh, goose pimples rising along every limb like the freckles on his own skin, wordless and conversation-less time passing and dragging between them as he allowed Castiel to become accustomed to the feeling, to bask in it.

It took time, but he had anticipated that. Breathing evened out, heart rate lowered to a semi-acceptable rate. And Dean lay with his cheek flat against his chest, fingers exploring the curvature of Castiel's body, pleasured himself in the small groans and hitches of breath he elicited whenever he passed sensitive areas of skin. He hadn't anticipated the feel of a finger beneath his chin, the coaxing of hands as he was ushered north. He'd expected the sparrow to flee the scene, certainly not to be kissed into near oblivion, just like that first time, mind dizzy with it, mouth thick with Castiel's taste. But when Dean's hands came away from his angel's face they came away wet, cheeks tear-stained and pink, blue eyes drowning as the hunter made to kiss the pain away, made to make it better in the only way he knew how.

They lay together afterwards, hunter on his stomach, angel on his back, Castiel's fingers riding the curve of his lover's spine as they bathed in their shared afterglow, eyes heavy, body's sweat slick and shimmering in the dull light of evening. Feather's stuck to their skin, Cas plucking one particular specimen from the hunter's shoulder to inspect, Dean snorting away a few that threatened to breach his nose.

"Why?" He murmured, twirling the soft down between his fingers, brow furrowed in thought.

Dean's eyes fluttered open, caught the look on his angel's face and responded wearily, "you wanted to feel – what you'd lost… it was the only way I knew how."

He leant into the angel's warm touch as he cupped his face in the breadth of his palm, green eyes meeting dry blue, allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead like a child, a chaste kiss but one filled with no less meaning.

"I love you," Castiel whispered, lips humming against Dean's brow. "Thank you."

Dean rose and returned the gesture, hooking a deft arm around Castiel's chest to pull him back down amongst the great cloud of down, both men unashamedly burying themselves alongside each other as they allowed themselves to be taken by the night that lay just beyond their four walls.

"I love you too."

(.:.)

_Slow it down, won't you come back to bed?_

_Rest your arms, and rest your legs. _

_Don't you frown when you're feelin' like that._

_Only love can dig you out of this._

_The Lumineers – Slow it Down. _


End file.
